i write about sex, amongst other things, for a living. (for the record, i’m totally a samantha — do not compare me to c*rrie.) as the wellness editor at a publication, i cover all things that deal with, you guess it!, wellness: health, fitness, mental health, and (my favorite) sex and relationships.

because of that last point, my work email is often overflowing with emails from vibrator brands and companies in the sexual wellness space, pitching expert insights on kinks and the best practices to make your partner hot in the bedroom. when you search my name, articles about naughty bucket lists, adult toy recommendations, sex positions, and oral sex tips populate at the top of the page. there’s probably even an article, written in the first-person, about how i used audio erotica to masturbate. (ok, not probably — there totally is one, if you look hard enough.)

to have a job like this, as you’d imagine, requires having zero shame. (right now, i’m writing words like “masturbate” and “oral sex” in a crowded coffee shop with about five people sitting behind me, probably reading my screen.) and why would i feel shame? i work a salaried, stable, full-time job with benefits — just like everyone else — and get to collaborate with a supportive, talented team on things i genuinely care about and like doing. i’m proud of the work i do: the articles i write, the incredible writers i mentor, and the stories that they trust me to edit — sex positions and all.

but unlike pregnancies and STIs and lackluster sexual partners, the feeling of shame is impossible to avoid.

the other day, i was at dinner with my girlfriends when one revealed that a former (balding) sexual partner would oftentimes send my articles to them. at first, i laughed it off. i mean, who gives a fuck what some mediocre, insecure man thinks of the work i do? male validation never really interested me, and if someone (especially some dude) has to say something about the career i built entirely on my own, then screw them, right?

in those moments, it’s easy to laugh it off. to brush off the comments and the situations with brevity and nonchalance and a sip of a fucking filthy martini. but that’s the thing: you don’t feel it when it touches your tongue — you feel the shame afterwards, when it burns in your throat. the. whole. way. down.

and as much as it pains me to admit, it makes me realize something. i do give a fuck.

don’t get me wrong, this wasn’t the first time that my career has been a talking point for men who sit indirectly, and sometimes even directly, in my life. i’ve dealt with the looks from mutuals and my friend’s new partners when i tell them what i do: the raised eyebrows and the surprised “oh!” i’ve seen the smirks and heard the classic quotes: “do your parents know what you do?” (yes, they do.) “what does your dad think of your job?” (my dad has been the biggest supporter of my writing my entire life.) “how does your fiancé feel about that?” (he reads everything i write. i didn’t choose to spend my life with a loser.)

i’ve also experienced the objectification of not only my work, but my body — like telling me that their girlfriend should read one of my articles, or a snide comment about how i’m probably “freaky” in the sack. it makes you feel… icky. dirty. disrespected.

it’s not just the feeling of shame: in a martini, i would equate “shame” to the vermouth — something that’s added in for a little extra oomph, but you can still taste it. what burns? it’s the gin: the feeling that my career will never be taken seriously. other people who work jobs in healthcare or business or finance or whatever-the-hell-people-do-on-computers are rarely called into question about their profession — at least from where i’m standing. they’re noble, practical, needed in society — which is, of course, all entirely true.

so why is my job any different? i work. i contribute. i write things that people read.

and yet, it’s oftentimes reduced to a “whacky” job that someone they know has. the butt of a joke. i’m the writer of the articles they pull up to poke fun at while slamming beers at a bar.

but in these brief moments of shame, there’s a silver lining. or, if we’re keeping up with the whole martini metaphor i’ve crafted (we’re this far deep, why the hell not?), the brine. the olives. the best parts. the things that make drinking a martini enjoyable — because, after all, only psychopaths drink a martini with just gin and vermouth. and they work in, like, corporate banking or healthcare sales, or something boring. (and they probably order ‘em with vodka, too. freaks.)

in my career, the burning is aided by community. the young women who reach out to me and tell me that my articles helped them feel empowered sexually, or that a piece i wrote made them feel confident and comfortable in their sexuality. the writers that i speak to who are passionate about sex-ed, sexuality, and writing about the otherwise “taboo” topics that are often limited to the walls of a bedroom, or the girls’ only group chat. even the men — the genuine ones — who have told me that the work i do, and the work of other sex writers, helps them to understand their partner better.

while the shame burns, it also forces me to remind myself that my work is important: it’s more than just sex positions and fun articles about sexuality. it’s publishing digital, data-based immersives on gen z’s shifting attitudes toward casual sex. it’s supporting writers in telling their stories about sexual assault, or how they’ve become sexually empowered through the college experience. it’s working on stories about sexual health, dating, relationships, menstrual and reproductive justice, and everything in between. and yes — it’s also the sex positions, the sex toys, and the silly pieces that are just fun to write.

that’s what makes me proud. that’s what overpowers the shame. and that’s what makes me give a fuck.

so, thank you: to people who read and appreciate sex writers, to the people who see the value in writing articles and telling stories that would otherwise go untold, and to the people who make the gin and vermouth of my career, and turn it into something i would order again and again and again.

x,

julianna